That Feel
The Ninth Annual Fall River Classic
As never seen in Any Publication Whatsoever,
by “j.r.”
© 2005 Jim Zech
An albatross crashes into the wing of a plane taking off from Midway Island thereby preventing me from getting a-hole-in-one on the 15th hole at the Fall River Golf Course which, consequently, foils my plans to take a group of 5 anglers to Crocodile Bay, Costa Rica to fly fish for sailfish. It’s the “butterfly effect” in action.
The “butterfly effect” describes two disparate and apparently improbably linked events being in reality linked through a chain of causation. In that hypothetical example a butterfly flaps its wings in China setting off a chain of events which eventually lead to a hurricane wiping out Bermuda.
The butterfly effect in this actual scenario being herein described runs something like this: a plane takes off from the runway on Midway Island at dusk,(they only allow planes to land and take off from Midway at dawn and dusk because that is the time when naturalists have determined that the local population of nesting Laysan’s albatrosses are least likely to be flying); an albatross who apparently didn’t get the memo about permissible flying hours flies into the wing of the 737 taking off from the runway, damaging a significant section of said wing, (we aren’t sure as to the physical status of the albatross, but my assumption is that the prognosis is grave); the plane is able to fly to Honolulu but is unable to make its scheduled departure to pick up a group of anglers on Christmas Island until the replacement piece for the damaged wing section arrives from the mainland 3 days hence; my buddy B&H is among the anglers on Christmas Island and he is supposed to work for me on the Friday before opening day of trout season so that I can participate in the 9th annual Fall River Golf/fishing Tournament with 30 other golf/angling aficionados; the golf portion of the tournament takes place on that Friday and on the 15th hole there is a hole-in-one prize of a vacation for 6 at Crocodile Bay fishing lodge in Costa Rica, a prize I intended to take, for I would have assuredly made the hole with one stroke, even though I haven’t golfed in four years; but because B&H is stuck on Christmas Island with no plane to take him home I have to work that Friday and thus miss the golf event and do not make the hole-in-one. See how it works: an albatross crashes into the wing of a plane taking off from Midway Island and I don’t get to party with my friends at a resort in Central America.
But these days naturalistic explanations seem to have gone out of vogue, being now superseded by more supernatural explanations. So maybe it was God that prevented my hole in one. That way, at least, we can absolve that albatross of any responsibility. Or maybe it was just fate. My bad luck.
I’m on the road now finally, after getting word that B&H had made it into Honolulu at least, so he should be able to find his way back to town in the next twelve hours. Shoot, I must have missed Granzella’s—Williams is five miles back behind me now and I was looking forward to a drippy road sandwich on my lap.
It’s Red Bluff and I’ve decided to take the long way to Fall River Mills—A17, Deschutes Road, Hwy 44 through Shingletown, 89 north to Cassel, right turn on the Cassel Fall River Mills Rd. It’s the scenic route past Lassen. Got T. Waits on the radio. Fishing music…if you are fishing the River Styx with Satan’s flyrod, that is.
Well there’s one thing you can’t lose It’s that feel. Your pants your shirt your shoes But not that feel.
You got that right, brother. Tom Waits must be an angler, or maybe an anglerfish. Oh, the imagery! I’m happy as hell driving alone in the late afternoon on this stormy afternoon because I don’t have to talk and that can be a profound pleasure sometimes.
Most of this golfing/fishing tournament takes place at the Circle 7 Lodge on the Fall River, except for the golfing, which happens on the golf course. When I finally arrive at the ranch on Friday evening I have missed both the golf portion of the tournament and also the fly casting competition, which consisted of trying to cast a chipmunk-sized wad of glo-bug yarn on a 4 weight fiberglass rod strung up with an 11 weight spey line into a hula hoop while blindfolded. “TKO” apparently and with a masterful display of accidental luck won that event. I probably could have just as easily accidentally won that event in addition to making the hole-in-one if not for that albatross.
The party is well underway when I pull up to “the Green House.” As always it’s a happy hour, fueled by gallons of Jonnie Ahi’s homemade Charbono and other various imbibations. The evening progresses. The time flies. The food flies. A group splits off and adjourns to the poolroom barn to shoot some pool, an event not formally part of the tournament. I join them to watch. Sloppy comes in to collect money for the “big fish pool” and then departs, leaving a thick trail of smoke. After a while Cherrycheeks, who is responsible for this whole shindig, comes into the barn, looks at the mounted trophy heads hanging on the wall, chooses a particularly menacing boar’s head and removes it, walking off giggling something about The Godfather, a bottle of ketchup, and hoping Jerr-jerr isn’t in his bed yet.
Since I have by default chosen to make the couch in the poolbarn my bed, there being no beds left in the houses, I try to encourage the pool players to depart my quarters so that I can sleep. “Fire!” I yell but no one pays me any attention. Navy comes in with a blanket and a pillow and I have to make a dive for the sofa to stake my claim. Navy leaves. I have to get up to steal some more of D.W.s’ scotch from the main cabin, though, so I spread all of my clothes over the sofa to mark my turf in case Navy comes back. When I come back from my Glenlivet aquisitional foray Mate is trying to explain the variable geometry of pool to The Rickster, but one of the bumpers on the table has gone completely flaccid and his shot goes exactly where he said it wouldn&rwquo;t.
I wake up and my mouth is Owens Lake so I wander off across the lawn in my underwear to find the bottles of water that I think are behind the seat in my truck. I don’t notice any stars so I think “rain”, and it does.
I wake up again and it’s light out and it’s raining. Coffee. Fishing Day One. Where is my gear? Mrs. P is my fishing partner for the day and he is asking me something about a boat. More coffee. Where is my gear? Headache. I can’t see well enough to tie on my tippet. I get to the dock and see that there is a large but very dead rainbow trout stiffly floating in the rainwater that needs to be bailed from the boat I’ve chosen—the one with the 9 horse outboard that will illegally throw a big wake while grossly exceeding the 5mph limit of the river. I can’t wait. Somebody says something about a corn-backed rattler coiled and ready to strike in one of the other boats, but I pay no attention and never did hear the whole story about that one. I take the board stiff, walleyed, dead rainbow out of my boat and reverently place it on what turns out to be the seat of Cherrycheeks’s boat. The Time discovers the cornbacker and says, “Who is the fuck who shit in my boat?”
Mrs. P and I are the first ones heading downstream so the throttle is wide open and the prohibited wake is flowin’. I’ve got my mind set on a deep hole at the bend with the big barn on it to start the fishing day proper and throw the anchor. Mrs. P throws a cast with a heavy sinking line and a bead head red tailed leech and lands a lovely 17 inch fish, which for the tournament is a category 3: category 1 is any fish between 8” and 13” which are worth 10 points each; 2 is 13” to 15” for 15 points; 3 is 15” to 18” for 20; 4 is 18” to 23” for 35; 5 is 23” to 25” for 45; and category 6 is any fish above 25” for 50 points. Unfortunately for Mrs. P the hours of the tournament are 7:30 to 3, and it’s only 7:15. I don’t care because although Mrs. P is my boat partner, he will most likely not be my fishing partner with whom I’ll combine my points. That person will be chosen by random drawing at the end of the day. Mrs. P will most likely be my competition, which keeps us and the rest of the noer-do-wells in the tournament honest, or nearly so.
I don’t get that feel about this spot after making a couple of casts. No juju. I’ve got no confidence. I tell Mrs. P that we are going back upstream. I’m the Captain.
We have to go a little slower now because there are other boats strung out between us and upriver and I don’t feel like getting yelled at now. We come up to the lodge and there isn’t anyone fishing in the big very deep hole in front of the place, which is a really good spot and has surrendered a few of the pool winning fish in past tourneys. There are a few fish rising to PMDs, so we both choose to throw leeches on heavy sinking lines. We are in it to win it. We get several 10 point fish each. I hook something bigger. Mrs. P is concerned because I’m not using the reel, choosing instead to handle the fish with the line in my hand. It’s an unconscious decision but the right one because the fish isn’t really taking much of the line that I’ve got piled on the deck anyway. This dog is head down. I think it might be a striper or maybe a yellowfin tuna by the way that it’s fighting, but then I see a big broom tail and I see it’s a trout now, a big one, a big ugly one. Mrs. P refuses to be responsible for my failure to land this fish and hands me the net. To my surprise I scoop him up deftly. He looks wrong. He has a huge square tail and a giant head with a big hooked jaw. It’s bronzy and it’s got haloed big black spots covering its whole body top to bottom. It’s got big black spots on its gill plates and I realize that it’s a brown trout. I tell Mrs. P. He says “Really? That’s cool,” insignificantly, and I realize that he doesn’t realize the significance of this catch. I quickly measure then release him–the trout, not Mrs. P.–22 inches. I might be in the money with this one.
The Mexican Jumping Bean comes out on the lodge porch overlooking the river and I tell him that I just caught a 22” brown. He is properly incredulous.
I get bored and after we both catch several more fish I pull the anchor and head back down stream. I’d never make the pro bass tour with behavior like this. Mrs. P is uneasy over my decision and doesn’t want to leave a money spot. He’s got 200 points in his sights for the first time ever and wants to go back up to the honey hole. After a few limp casts in a downstream slot he pleads and begs. It’s raining and I have a blazing and inexplicable headache so I acquiesce and head back to the Circle 7 pool.
I’ve got a lot of points on the board and am kinda bored with dredging leeches, so I switch to a 4 weight rod with an intermediate line and a soft hackle p.t. I turn around and cast behind us onto some grassy flats behind the anchored boat. Remarkably, I catch even more fish this way. Now Mrs. P and I are at loggerheads. He wants the boat to be anchored so that he can better dredge the pool, I want it positioned now so that I can better fish over the weeds in the shallows. But the fishing day is now almost done and Mrs. P needs only one more fish to make his 200, so I give in again, my competitive edge dulled by my blinding headache.
It was a big points day for me and I’ve even beat Cherrycheeks by 5 points. But I lost out to Lucky Johnson and his 25½ inch rainbow for Sloppy’s big fish money pool. That’s a big fish! Jerr-jerr even had the photo for proof.
Blackjack tournament and I can’t even count my own cards. Nam sits next to me and asks me what the fuck I am looking at and I’m not sure. It’s just Nam’s endearing way of saying howdy. I enlist Mexican Jumping Bean to help me because he is a real card player. He stands over my shoulder and tells me what to do and after four rounds I’ve miraculously got the chips to get into the finals. MJB wanders off and I’m left to fend for myself in the finals amid 4 good players. Shurm, who shares my predilection for iodine, hands me a tumbler half full of Laphroig to ease my nerves. I drink it and come in fourth; I’m not sure if there is a causal relationship between the Laphroig and my score. Maybe it’s a predetermined outcome…fate. Mrs. P wins first place, significantly upping his overall point standing in the tournament overall.
Cherrycheeks throws a hundred on the table for a cut of the cards. Lucky Johnson, who is a genuine apprenticed high stakes Las Vegas poker player, says that cutting is the biggest sucker bet of all and puts down a Franklin anyway. Navy wants in but Lucky Johnson menacingly eyeballs him and seriously says that this is just between him and Cherrycheeks. Cherrycheeks cuts a two. Double or nothing. Cherrycheeks cuts a king for four hundred.
Next morning up in the rain–big rain. Coffee. It’s not working. More coffee but no effect on the hangover and that is unusual. Fishing with The Rickster today. Someone’s got their shit in my boat. It is Mrs. P’s. shit. I save him the effort and dump it all back on the dock while his new boat mate, J. Roller, watches quizzically. I tell J. Roller that Mrs. P put his stuff in the wrong boat and feel pumped full of justice as The Rickster and I pull away from the dock, having just thwarted an a ttempted illegal commandeering of our vessel.
Rick wants to do Zug Bug Alley. He hooked a lot of fish there yesterday, but lost most of them before they could be counted. We pass The Peck and Time, and then Jerr-jerr in his American River Custom Striper Slayer and catch up to Cherrycheeks going full bore and throwing a wake. Cherrycheeks flags us over to warn us that the corner house guy will call the cops if he sees us hauling ass up river, but I ease our larger and more powerful craft next to Cherrycheeks’s tiny boat and gently ease his bow towards a collision with the bank. Cherrycheeks has his secret high-number spot that both The Rickster and I know about, but I tell him that he can have it because we are headed to Zug Bug and we leave with a gunning of our impressive outboard motor before we actually do cause a crash into the bank.
The Rickster and I stop in the middle of Zug Bug and I once again don’t get that feel. As Captain I lift the anchor and start the motor. We get upstream as far as the Spring Creek Bridge, but we can’t get under it, or at least assume not, so we start to fish right below it. In working our way down the few hundred yards from the bridge to the first bend I realize that The Rickster’s Curse of Landing has rubbed off. We both are hooking fish, but landing exceptionally few. Right down from us is a couple doing the Fall River Shake. We look down on them in both meanings and they are hooking almost nothing as we are hooking and losing a lot following right behind them with our sinking lines and leeches. It’s raining, they have hoods on and don’t notice our hookups. Probably best that way.
The Rickster and I work hard at getting some fish to the boat and finally get some respectable numbers tallied, so we head down toward the lodge in the rain. The Rickster is eating the smoked oysters that I stole from Cherrycheeks’s gear bag. He’s putting them on Nacho Cheese Doritos and claims that he’s come up with a new taste treat. My forehead feels like it is a granite quarry and my eyeballs feel like pinballs. I can’t figure it out; I’m not a headache kinda guy. It’s as if I haven’t had a cup of coffee in a couple of days. Hey, wait…Cherrycheeks drinks decaf and he was in charge of the morning coffee. That asshole!
On the way down from Zug Bug we pass JL, who isn’t part of the tourney and is actually presumably fishing the Fall River just for the fun of it, and he says that he heard about my brown trout and starts grilling me about it. I think that by catching that brown my credibility factor has decreased by a factor of a hundred bucks. I’m starting to doubt myself. Maybe it was a taimen?
One hour left in the tourney and I’m out of enthusiasm. The sun comes out. Fish are taking PMDs left and right. The Rickster and I succumb to the dictates of tradition and tie on dries–I do at least. The Rickster ties on a soft-hackle on a floating line. We work the rising fish and several peck at The Rickster’s fly, but we fail to hook any of them, except for one incautious small rainbow that ate my Quigley. 2p.m. Game over. Back to Circle 7 to tally up.
Cherrycheeks has the scores. I have randomly chosen Cherrycheeks as my fishing partner for the last day and that is a good way for me to accumulate a lot of points. I end up taking third place in the tournament and get a new flyrod for my troubles. The Bus has come in under the radar and has the highest point count and takes first place. Stateworker gets second overall, and also gets the pool for day two with an 18 inch rainbow.
Instead of taking the Cassel to Shingletown scenic route home I opt for 299 so that I can stop at the coffee kiosk in Burney for an extra large steamy brown one, and after drinking it my crushing headache immediately goes away. Cherrycheeks and his frickin’ decaf! I knew it!
Next year I will golf, in spite of any seabirds that might try to thwart my plans, or any God, for that matter. And I’ll be sure to bring my own coffee, real coffee.